


the bedroom hymns

by cordsycords



Category: L.A. By Night (Web Series)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Human, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, F/F, F/M, Flogging, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Minor Eva/Chloe Hudson, Proabaly some more I can't remember, Rated E more for the Kink rather than sex, Sensation Play, Voyeurism, Wax Play, Yes We Be Kinky But We Also Be SOFT, since they don't actually have sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21913963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordsycords/pseuds/cordsycords
Summary: A series of encounters between Shadow and Rose, two members of Labyrinth Social, a private club catering to a set of very specific interests.
Relationships: Eva/Chloe Hudson, Eva/Jasper Heartwood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	the bedroom hymns

**Author's Note:**

> cool cool cool cool cool cool
> 
> Title from _Bedroom Hymns_ By Florence + The Machine for those good old persephone vibes.
> 
> Edit 05/04/2020: This fic now has cover art by the lovely PuzzleDragon. Go check them out on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuzzleDragon) and [Tumblr](https://puzzle-dragon.tumblr.com).

[](https://puzzle-dragon.tumblr.com/post/617146184343158784/the-cordsycords-collection-we-can-just-kiss-like)

The first Saturday of every month at Labyrinth was Masquerade Night, an evening of luxurious pleasures from the food and drink, to the entertainment and anonymous encounters.

He looked at himself in the mirror of the changing room, taking one deep breath to settle himself before he lifted his mask up to cover his face, tying the silk ribbons tight around the back of his head. It was simple, a matte black finish lined with soft black leather, covering half of his face from the right side of his forehead to his left jaw. When the ties were done correctly, it settled well against his skin, the leather lightly sticking to it without being irritating. He looked at himself once more, up and down, rolling his neck from side-to-side, muscles clenching and relaxing, getting himself ready to go out into the ballroom. His heart settled down in his chest, and he wiped the sweat of his palms off on his jeans. Satisfied with himself, he returned to his assigned locker, putting away his phone, wallet, and the clothes he had worn to the club that night. He locked it up, taking the key and tying the lanyard around his wrist.

The entrance from the changing rooms to the ballroom are decorously covered with long red velvet curtains for masquerade nights, taking a breath to ready himself before he pushed them aside to step out into the large room. As always, the masquerade attracted quite a crowd, from longtimers whom he could recognize by mask if not by their actual face, to the newcomers who were only obvious by the way they carried themselves. Masquerade dress code was best described as “free to interpretation” or, in other words, “where whatever the fuck you want, even if it’s nothing at all”, and that was certainly evident from just a quick glance of the scene before him. 

The nudists were, perhaps, the most obvious about their proclivities, baring their bodies for the world to see, all except for their masks, of course, which seemed to lean more toward the ostentatious side than most. Others were in various states of dress, from regular day-to-day wear to full-on fetish gear, leather and latex head to toe, collared men and women lead on leashes by their partners, sipping on champagne flutes and making idle conversation like everyone else. Some even wore period-appropriate clothing, long dresses and tailored suits, but one only had to look closely to see corsets that were laced far too tight to be comfortable, who gentlemen who walked like they were hiding something underneath all that pomp and circumstance.

He himself walked the line between the two extremes, bare-chested except for the harness she requested he wore for the occasion, with black skinny jeans tucked into boots that lace halfway up his legs. A member of the staff, dressed in their signature red bowtie and tophat, offered him a plate of champagne flutes, which he took with muted thanks. She asked if he required anything else for the evening, and he waved her away, taking a sip as he took in the rest of the room before setting off to look for her.

They had a predetermined meeting, and she never did like it when he showed up late.

They had met almost a year ago, which made this their tenth encounter so far. On that first night, he had felt so drawn to her. He was a new member at the time, so unsure of himself, and she had sparked his attention like a beacon, her presence so calming from where she watched over the ballroom from her seat at the bar, a glass of sickly-coloured liquid in her hands. In a sea of people clad mostly in black, she seemed to prefer white, tight leather pants, and a lace top that left little to the imagination. Ever since then, he had never seen her appear in any other colour except for her red velvet mask, embroidered with a pattern of fallen rose petals that rested over her eyes, highlighting her bright blue eyes.

To this day, he could not recount what exactly made his feet walk over to her and take a seat on the stool beside her, but he has been forever thankful since then. Her eyes had watched his every single move, trailing his figure until he sat down next to her.

“Can I buy you another one?” He had asked, quiet for his uncertainty, but at least it came out without a stutter,

She took a sip of her drink, her lips quirking into a small smile, “Only if you share one with me.”

“Yeah,” he nodded, dumbstruck by the fact she had agreed. He waved the bartender over and asked for two more orders of what she had been drinking. 

He watched her as the bartender took out two small glasses and a bottle of absinthe, pouring a small amount into each one before filling the rest of the glass with ice water poured over a sugar cube. He waited for her to take hers first before he picked up his own, watching as she took another sip and he mirrored her. The distinct licorice flavour of the spirit burned on the way down his throat, but he kept his composure.

“I’m Rose,” she introduced herself, holding out her hand for him to shake. He doubted it was her real name.

“Shadow,” he introduced himself in turn, taking her hand to shake, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Shadow,” she repeated, tilting her head to the side as she smiled, “It’s lovely to meet you as well. Is there any reason you decided to come over here tonight?”

“You’re, um, you’re very beautiful,” he rushed out, tongue almost tripping over itself. He was about to wince at his forwardness before he heard her chuckle under her breath, looking away for a second to bite her lip before she turned her gaze to him, a full smile on her face. He matched it with a smile of his own, fascinated to discover that for all the confidence she exuded, she might have been feeling the same uncertainty as himself.

He could not describe how their conversation had turned into what the rest of the night would eventually become, for he had no intention of leading it that way, but after their glasses were finished, and he couldn’t pull himself away from the twinkle in her eyes, she reached out her hand to cover his.

“So, Shadow,” she asked, “Do you want to… stay a little longer?”

“Uh, ye-- sure, yeah. I can-- I could do that.”

She pulled him along through the ballroom, and if eyes had been watching them as they went, then he didn’t care to notice. The private rooms available for rent were on the second floor of the club, guarded by a concierge with a row of keys hanging behind them, similar to an old hotel. Rose paid for the room for an hour.

As far as he knew, each of the seven rooms was the same, with a large bed tucked against one wall, and a St. Andrew’s Cross on the other. If clients required other tools, they could be requested in advance, but the club encouraged the use of personal toys. Upon entering room six, he immediately felt himself pause, looking at the cross, its leather restraints hanging from the dark wood.

“Are you okay with using colours? Or do you have a safe word?” She asked, walking past him to the bed.

“Do I need one?” He asked absentmindedly.

“Not tonight, hopefully, but it’s good to know.”

He shrugged, “Colours are fine.”

“Okay,” she said with one final smile, reaching up to touch his cheek before her entire demeanour changed, “Shirt off, on the bed, please.”

Her already deep voice grew heavy and commanding, sending a shiver down his spine. He tried not to rush to obey, slowly tugging the hem of his shirt over his head and dropping it the floor. He walked over to the bed, and she followed him, standing over him as he sat down on its edge. Soft hands reached out to lead him downwards, turning over onto his stomach as he raised his hands over his head, curling his fingers of one fand around his wrist while the other remained wrapped in a fist. His breathing grew sharper as he lost sight of her, turning his head to look at her, but guided back into the position by her hand.

“Stay,” she said, soft and low, but no less a demand. She drew her hand away until there was only a finger of contact between them, which she trailed down his spine, her nail gently scratching at his skin, all the way down to the edge of his jeans. His entire body shivered in the wake of the touch, his breath hitching when he could not feel her anymore. He calmed himself, holding his breath so he could listen to her movements.

He heard her footsteps across the hardwood floor, the sound of her taking off her shoes, and the rustling of clothing being removed. She came back toward him and, without another word, climbed onto the bed, quickly hitching her leg over his body to straddle his body, placing her weight at his lower back, her hands spreading themselves on his skin. He gasped at the touch, muscles going tight.

“Shhh,” she quieted him, fingers gently rubbing at his skin, “Let’s see if we can get you to relax.”

“You can tr-” he began to say, cut off when she moved her palms up his body, pressing into his skin with delightful pressure until she made her way up to his neck. One hand held his head down into the covers, though not in a way that was necessarily restrictive, just constant pressure. The moan that escaped him surprised him, as did the feeling of his muscles relaxing into the mattress.

“Colour?” She asked, her smile obvious from the inflection of her voice.

“Green.” He sighed out.

“Good.”

She continued her ministrations, massaging up and down his back, each time ending with her head at his neck, applying pressure, forcing his body to relax. With every pass he felt himself sink further and further into the bed, his breath slowing as his eyes began to droop. His earlier alertness dimmed until he no longer cared to think about anything but the pressure of her hands on his skin, up and down, up and down once more.

Once he was comfortable, though, she changed her routine, curling her fingers to lightly scratch at his back, alternating between digging them in and then lifting them up so that he could barely feel a tickle. She moved them up the sides of his abdomen, the light touched causing his muscles to spasm. His hands clenched with each pass, jumping to take her hands away before he clamped down on the temptation, remembering that she told him to _stay still_.

All of a sudden she paused, removing her hands from him, and he waited eagerly for her next move. The compressed on either side of his head as she put her weight onto it, laying herself on his body, her bare chest pressing against his skin. Her lips pressed against the divot between his shoulders and some more cognizant part deep inside of him noticed that she had removed her own mask. The other part of him stayed focused on her lips, moving up and over his neck towards his ear until her breath tickled against him. She nipped the shell of his ear before working her way back to his shoulder with nips of her teeth. Her hand moved back to put pressure down on his neck when she bit into the meat of his shoulder, sucking a mark into his skin.

He kept count of each mark she left behind, the first on his shoulder, the third somewhere farther down his back, the seventh right at the juncture of his neck, one left-right near the edge of his jeans when his brain felt too hazy to count anymore. Each time she left her marks, a hand would return to his neck, and he would sink deeper and deeper into the fog at the edge of his mind.

When she left him, he felt adrift, lost without the anchor of her presence. The first moment on no contact almost sent him into a panic, but she told him not to move, so he kept still, trying to find her footsteps through the fog, though it had become so hard to focus. It was less than a minute before her hands were back, pushing against his shoulder, and guiding his arms away from each other so he could roll onto his side. With a held breath, he looked up to her face, disappointed that she had put her mask back on, though her chest was still bared to his gaze.

“Why stop?” He asked as she climbed onto the bed next to him, sitting up against the headboard. He reached out for her, wrapping his arms around her, settling his head against her abdomen. Her hand went to his hair.

“We don’t have the room for much longer, and you need to wake up a bit before I let you go,” she said, angling his head up so he could look into her eyes, “But that doesn’t mean we couldn’t see each other again, sometime.”

“Uh, yeah?” He said unintelligently.

She chuckled, “Okay. We’ll talk when you’re awake.”

“M’kay,” he replied, focusing on the rise and fall of her stomach as she breathed in and out, in and out again.

They exchanged phone numbers that first night and spent the next month planning their next session. Limits were discussed: she drew the line at drawing blood, she wanted to keep their identities discrete, and she reserved the right to back out of any scene if she felt it was going too far, just as he did. He liked pain, he could do bondage, he was fine with sensation play, but he couldn’t do degradation or humiliation. Sometimes the words just cut too deep. Neither of them was particularly interested in actually having sex.

The next masquerade night, she came prepared, booking the room in advance. When he found her in the ballroom that night, they skipped their drinks, practically rushing to get there. Her bag was already there, leaning up against the foot of the bed. Once again, his gaze was drawn to the St. Andrew’s cross on the opposite wall.

“Do you want to try it?” She asked, apparently noticing his fascination with the device.

“Maybe, but… not tonight,” he replied.

“We can work up to it,” she said, bending down to grab the backpack, lifting up to the bed and unzipping it. She began to take out the stuff she had packed, his eyes catching a flogger and a loop of rope before she handed him a long, black cloth.

“Shoes and shirt, standing. Put this on,” she commanded, continuing to set everything up, pointedly keeping her back to him as he followed her instructions.

He took off his shoes, setting them down in the corner of the room, and his shirt followed soon afterwards. He then walked to stand in the middle of the floor, watching her back as he took off his mask, baring himself to her, before bringing the black cloth of the blindfold over his eyes and tying it off behind his head. He stood there, waiting for her next command.

She spoke again a minute later, “Good. We’re going to wait to try the cross, but we can emulate it. No restraints today, though. It’s all about being still,” she explained as her hands went to his, bringing them up over his head so that he could clasp them on the back of his head, his elbows pointed outwards. Next, he felt her foot go between his own, encouraging him to spread his legs until they were just more than shoulder-width apart, not straining, but just enough to be uncomfortable. 

“Good,” she repeated, hands touching him lightly, going to correct where his shoulders had slouched, and pushing his elbows farther apart.

“Good boy,” she whispered. His breath hitched, his ears focusing on the words as her hands settled on his chest, “Now, stay.”

Every muscle clenched in the response of her command. Her touch left him, and he was left waiting in the void for her to return.

When she did return, it was with the lightest touches against his stomach, trailing the faintest outline of muscle up to his protruding ribs, trailing each edge of bone through skin, back and forth. He sucked in his breath, holding it as she touched him, letting it go with shaking hesitance as she continued up towards his chest, taking his nipple between her fingers and pinching it. He gasped, back arching toward her until she let go. The reprieve didn’t last for long, however, quickly afterward he felt the cold kiss of steel against his skin as the clamp pinched down on.

A whine escaped the back of his throat as he gasped through the pain, in through the nose out through the mouth. Shaking where he stood, he wished he could bend, bow before her as he worked through the pain, but he stayed where she asked him to, spine straight, head up.

“Colour?” She asked.

“Green,” he hissed between breaths.

The next clamp followed shortly afterward, the same bite of steel sending him into a state until the pain melted away into a frozen sort of numbness.

Her hand came to his cheek, and he tilted his head into her caress, “You’re doing so well Shadow.”

Words would not come, but he hoped she could understand him nonetheless. His need for her praise so soon into their relationship was surprising, to say the least, but he chased it. Would beg to hear it if she asked.

She had a whole bag of toys to get through, and they worked through each one, starting with the softest, and moving closer to the more painful things to play with. Feathers tickled up along his sides and under his arms, the cool slide of an ice cube down his spine followed by the soft whisper of her breath, sending shivering ripples across his skin. Between each change, she would check in with him, correct his posture, anchor him in the moment. She never punished him for his missteps, had never indicated she would, at least not this time around, but every guiding touch of her initial order reminded him that he needed to do better, that he needed to _be_ better. For her.

When the hour was almost up, she stepped back, placing her hands on his arms, “We’re done, relax.”

He resisted for a second before he finally let go of his interlaced fingers. His muscles had gone pleasantly numb a few minutes ago, and relaxing them made them feel heavy and tired. She pressed his mask into his hands, and with that he knew he could take the blindfold off with shaking fingers, replacing it once more a moment later. She took everything off the bed and packed it away, leaving space for him to lay out on his back.

The clamps came off last, the frozen numbness wiped away as the blood rushed back to the skin, nerve endings turning to sharp pain. His entire body sunk back into the mattress, endorphins rushing through his head as he basked in the pleasure of it.

He quickly learned that she liked rope. The next few sessions involved it heavily, tying him with intricate patterns that left red marks on his skin for the following days. He was no more than a mannequin for her vision, standing as she wove the rope around his body into harnesses and difficult knots. Occasionally, she would move a limb or two into an impossible position, holding it down with rope, testing his ability to persevere as his muscles strained against their bindings.

Other nights were more simple, where she’d tie his arms around his back and his legs down into kneeling at her feet. The leather of the crop travelled up and down his body, kissing and biting in turn, leaving her marks on him for days to come, and he was delighted to bear them for her.

In light of what she was able to accomplish with a few feet of rope, the cross didn’t seem that bad.

Blindfolded, as always, she closed the leather cuffs around his wrists and ankles with his back facing the wall. His limbs were spread wide, to the point of it being uncomfortable, although that was probably the point of it all. He shifted around, testing the lengths of his restraints until he grew used to them.

“Ready?” She asked.

“Yes.”

The first strike of the flogger against his skin was like a dozen tiny pinpricks dancing up and down his chest, a taste of what was to come. It went down across his chest in less than a second, lightly brushing against his nipples, down is chest to his abdomen. Afterwards, she gave him a few seconds to breathe, and then it came down once more, it’s impact against his skin slightly harder than the last.

She continued from there, each hit against his skin stronger than the last, building up his tolerance to the pain, letting him stew for longer between each strike, making him beg for the next hit, the next burst of pain that made him groan and whine, struggle against the cuffs as his knees grew weak. His legs were shaking, his hands clasped tightly around the chains above him, trying to keep himself from falling.

She left him there for a while, limp and shaking, until he wished for her touch once more, whether it was soft or violent, “Please… please, one more.”

He expected the flogger once more, but it didn’t come. Nothing came, not her voice or the sound of her breath of the touch of another one of her twos. For thirty seconds, he lost her, “Please, I want it, please.”

He swung his head side to side, trying to place where she had gone to, pulling against the cuffs in desperation. So quickly he had set into a near panic, and instantly she brought him out of it when he felt her finger on his chin. He froze, breathing heavily, so focused on the barest hint of her touch, when he felt her grow near, her breath dusting his lips, followed so softly by her lips on his.

He was struck dumb by it, completely forgetting to reciprocate until it was too late. The kiss itself was so chaste, just a brush of lips against his, but when she moved away he surged forward, searching for the touch again.

“No,” he whined, “Come back.”

The next three hits of the flogger came hard again his skin in quick succession, he jolted in place, pulling and relaxing in the cuffs as he shook, standing on his tiptoes to escape the pain, his leg straining--

“Red, red, red--” he gasped as the pain shot down from his left thigh into his calf. He righted himself, taking the pressure off of his leg, but the pain continued.

“What is it?” She asked, worry edging into her tone.

“My leg,” he groaned out.

He heard the flogger drop to the floor before he felt her fingers on his leg, quickly removing one cuff and then the other so he could stand up straight, leaning all of his weight onto his right leg. His arms came down next, and as soon as they did he crumpled to the floor, stretching his sore leg out in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to catch his breath. He hadn’t noticed the tears until now.

“It’s fine, you’re fine.”

“I tried--”

“Shh, come here,” she sat next to him, bringing her arm around his shoulders so he could hold him to her chest, “You did what you were supposed to do, you did so well.”

He wrapped his arms around her, keeping her close, her heart beating a lullaby rhythm against his cheek.

The week before their eighth session, she sent him a text.

_Are you okay if I bring in a third? Just to keep me busy while you’re tied up ;)_

He had agreed to the change in their routine, eager to see what she had in mind. 

The next week, they walked to their room together, the wry smile on her face betraying her thoughts. The room was empty when they entered, so whoever it was must have been joining them later. She walked him over to the bed, gesturing towards the garment she had laid onto the covers.

So that’s what she needed his measurements for.

“You okay with this?” She asked, leaning against his arm.

“Uh,” he murmured, unable to take his eyes off the black straitjacket, “Yeah-- yup. Totally. It’s gonna be fine.” His words trying to catch up with the frantic thoughts racing through his head.

“Yeah?” She asked, looking up to him.

“Yes,” he assured her, looking to meet her twinkling eyes.

“Hmm,” she hummed, reaching out to grab a piece of leather from the foot of the bed, handing him the hood, “First things first, shirt and pants, and put this on.”

He worked quickly to follow her instructions, shucking his shirt off and half-mindedly throwing it into the corner of the room. His boots were next, unlacing them with shaking fingers, then tripping over his pants as he tried to take them off, throwing them away when he was done to join his shirt. They had used to hood before, so he was familiar with the feeling of leather encasing his head, stifling his hearing, and limiting his breathing to his nose of the zipper over the mouth was closed. He pulled the zipper behind his head down, tightening the leather to his skin. When he was done, she took the buckle of the hood’s collar and pulled it together, fastening it at the back of his neck, checking to make sure that it wasn’t too tight. He could still see, but the hood came with a blindfold as well.

She assisted him with getting his arms through the sleeves of the straitjacket, fastening the back together with a series of buckles. The garment itself wasn’t heavy, though he could feel it becoming more restrictive as she went through each buckle, the fabric pressing against his skin. She reached through his legs to bring the final strap up between them, pulling it tighter than what was necessarily comfortable. He let out a restrained groan at the contact on his cock, which was already semi-interested during the current proceedings.

Next, she dragged a chair to the middle of the floor, facing the foot of the bed, and guided him to sit down. From there, she brought his sleeved left arm across his chest, the sleeve that extended past his hand wrapping around to his back. She fastened that one first, letting him feel the extent of his limited motion, before doing the same to his right arm. After she was done, she moved to stand in front of him, appreciating her work before she turned to grab two loops of rope from her bag.

She moved his legs to align with the legs of the chair, and tied them down with the rope, coiling it around his legs and the chair until the entirety of his lower legs were covered in the soft rope. Afterwards, she lifted up the toes of his right foot, placing something under it.

“Step down,” she said. He did so and heard a loud squeak go through the room, “Good. That’s your safe word for tonight, okay?”

He nodded vigorously, stepping on the squeaker once more to prove he understood.

She smiled, leaning down to press her lips to the zipper that covered his mouth, “Good boy,” she said, moving back to sit at the edge of the bed. He strained forward to follow her, desperate for her kiss, only to find that his restraints pulled him back after only an inch or so.

He sighed heavily through his nose, leaning back into the chair, watching her intently to see what she would do next.

The knock sounded through the room, and his head whipped to the door, and back to her.

“There she is,” she said, walking over and opening it.

The woman who entered was taller than Rose, even without the heels she was wearing, long red hair streaming down her back. She wore a white corset and panties, a suspender belt holding up a pair of similarly laced white stockings that descended into bright white leather boots.

“This him?” She asked Rose, who nodded in reply. Almost squealing in reply, she walked over to him, lifting up his chin so that he could look into her eyes, her white, feathered mask hiding the rest of her face, 

“So this is your shadow,” she mused, turning his face from side-to-side, “So very pretty. I’m Archangel, Shadow, it’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re not here for him,” Rose reminded her from the bed.

Archangel pouted, turning back to Rose, “Of course dear, how could I forget?” She walked over to the bed with long legs, taking Rose’s face within her hands and planting a kiss on her lips. Rose immediately placed her arms around Archangel’s waist, bringing the two of them closer together. He fidgeted in his seat, sitting up straighter than before and moaning behind the leather of the mask.

Archangel chuckled, breaking away from Rose to look at him, “Looks like someone wants to join in.”

Rose brought her back, “Don’t taunt him,” she said, bringing their lips together once more.

They continued their kissing, lips breaking apart and meeting once more as light gasps and low moans sounded between them. He watched, entranced by the two of them as Archangel reached her hands down to the hem of Rose’s white sweater pulling back for a moment to lift it over Rose’s head and off her arms, throwing it on the bed behind them to reveal black lace against an expanse of pale skin. His mouth began to water, and he struggled once more against the restraints. Archangel peeked at him through the corner of her eye, her lips turned up in a knowing smirk as she went back to kissing Rose, her hands moving up and down her stomach, playing at the edge of her pants.

God, he envied her. 

As she unbuttoned Rose’s jeans and slowly opened the zipper to reveal more black lace, Rose suddenly moved away, pausing everything. 

She looked over to him, “You don’t need to see this.”

She reached over to the bed once more, grabbing a strip of leather.

Right, the blindfold.

He groaned as she walked over to him, unable to keep his eyes off of her as she lifted the blindfold to cover his eyes, pulling the straps around to the back of his head and buckling it tight. In seconds, his sight was completely blacked out, his breathing sounding heavy as it worked through the hood’s nose holes. He calmed after a few moments, resigning himself to her when he heard her voice in his ear, “Remember your safe word.”

From then one, he couldn’t see what the two women were up to, only hear, and even that was muffled slightly by the hood. Rose had given him just enough of a peek to get excited, to plant a picture in his head of something he desired. That was the trick here, that his thoughts could lead him down more arousing paths than the idea of just watching them. He could feel himself growing hard, straining against the fabric of the straitjacket that ran between his legs. He shifted in the chair, moaning against the contact, ultimately knowing that there was no way he was able to get himself off within the restraints.

He tried not to move in an effort to stay silent so that he could at least hear them through the hood. He swore they began to moan even louder after he was blindfolded, knowing that sound was the only way for him to understand what was happening beyond the black dark. He tried to distinguish between the two of them: Archangel’s voice was much higher, long and drawn out, while Rose was more subdued, but he could hear her.

He listened for her, each noise sparking an image in his mind, the slide of fabric onto the floor, the creak of the mattress as one body was pushed on top of it, and an answering croak when a second body joined the first. 

He fixated on her, so much that Archangel didn’t even make an appearance in the scenes he made up for themselves. Just him and her, riding him as he was held down by her ropes, unable to touch her as she took her pleasure. Her body his to worship, but not to touch, to stare, and fawn, and beg for. Nudity was certainly not a novelty between the two of them with the type of relationship they had, but there was a difference, somehow, between what they were and what they could be. It all reminded him of the agreements they made before they began their arrangement.

But God he wanted more.

Her moans increased in frequency, louder, more drawn out, suddenly ending at once. He tried to picture her face when she came, given what little he had seen of it, her eyes closed, her mouth parted. He’d be on his in front of her, wringing those noises with fingers and mouth, watching her as she could hold herself up no longer, collapsing back onto the bed with her fingers in his hair. He’d race to follow, climbing over her body to bring his lips to hers.

He strained against the straitjacket, surging forward, completely hard now, with only himself to blame for the discomfort.

She laughed, “Oh Shadow, have we left you alone for too long?”

He practically snarled at hearing her voice again. He heard one of them move off the bed, footsteps stalking toward him, and then the weight of her sitting on his leg, her laced underwear rough against his bare leg, so close to more sensitive parts of his body. He felt his fingers on the hood, and for a desperate second he thought she was going to remove the blindfold, then internally cursed when instead she unzipped the zipper in front of his mouth. He took a quick breath of fresh air when he felt her thumb trail the curve of his lips before pushing past them, pressing it down onto his tongue. He leaned in as close as he could get to her, wrapping his lips around her thumb and lightly sucking at it with his mouth. Her other hand went to the back of his head, unbuckling the blindfold and throwing it away. His eyes shied away from the light, her face blurred until he was finally able to focus on it. She was still masked, but her eyes were bright, and her cheeks flaunted a light shade of pink.

“Damn, you two are adorable,” Archangel spoke, though he did not deign to acknowledge her, “I guess I’ll be going, then.”

She stood up and walked out the door, not even bothering to put her clothes back on.

“Thank Fi for letting me borrow you,” Rose called out as she left.

Archangel laughed, shutting the door behind her.

Rose sighed, getting up from her perch on his lap, “Let’s get you out of this, huh?”

He nodded.

She started with the bindings on his legs, the ropes leaving behind trails of red where they had dug into his skin. His arms were released next, and he used a moment of her time to roll his shoulder and stretch out his limbs before she unbuckled the rest of the jacket, pulling it off of him and letting it fall to the floor. He remained on the chair, hunched over himself as he stared at the garment. She sat on the bed, laying aginst the cushions, watching him closely.

“Shadow,” she started, tilting her head with a wry smile on her face, “Are you hard?”

He bowed his head, “Yes.”

“Would you like to come?”

“Yes.”

“You can touch yourself, Shadow.”

Because she said to, he did so, wrapping himself in hand and groaning at the contact, closing his eyes as his head fell back. 

“Do you do this by yourself, Shadow?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think of me?”

He jolted in place, “Yes,” he confessed, “Can I--”

“Do what you want.”

“Please... tell me--”

“You can come.”

He groaned as he spilled over his own hand, relaxing as much as he could into the hard seat of the chair as he calmed down from his orgasm. When he was finally able to open his eyes again, he saw her sitting there, pretty as a picture, cross-legged in her black lace, her head supported by her arms as she watched him.

“Come here,” she said, tapping the bed next to her.

He raced to join her.

He walked through the ballroom, quite aware of the other’s around him and their tendency to stare. At one point it would have unnerved him, the thought of other people watching, taking him in, his walk, his clothes, his stature. But now, he gave them no care. He knew most of them by name, has seen their faces when he came to the club during the week, had made small talk with them like they were in any other establishment. They knew who he belonged to, now, after so many months. And if they didn’t know, those who approached him received a firm denial, and then they never asked again.

As far as he knew, she was still as much of an enigma amongst the rest of the client base as she was to himself. The others he had talked to had noticed that she had joined the masquerade night several months before him, but they hadn’t heard of her taking any other long-term partners. After a while, he stopped listening to the gossip, stopped trying to chase after it himself. If she wanted to reveal more about herself to him, she would do so in her own time.

He looked over to a row of couches sitting against the wall, finding Archangel artfully draped across another woman’s lap. She caught his eye with hers, smirking knowingly as she watched him walk away. The woman she was with tried to refocus her attention, but even when she did Archangel’s eyes still followed him lazily through the room, that insufferable smile still on her face.

He felt her gaze leave him when he entered the next room, looking towards the bar to see if Rose was there, sipping on absinthe like the first night they met. But she was nowhere to be seen. 

Their room, then.

He had no idea at what point in time he began to refer to it as “their room”. But Rose liked routine and she always booked the same one, so it must have happened at some point along the way. Ten months was a long time to be engaged with a person who’s face he had never seen.

The woman at the front desk waved him by, and he walked down the hallway, past closed doors and noises inside them that left little to the imagination. Theirs was the third door on the left. She answered when he knocked, greeting him with a sweet smile before she reached out to grab his harness and pull him into the room.

He paused when he saw the massage table sitting in the middle of the floor, a small table topped with several multicoloured candles standing next to it. His breath hitched.

He had mentioned waxplay months ago, when they first started they’re little arrangement. Although she had been interested in the idea, she was hesitant at the time due to not knowing much about it. It seemed she had done her own research since then.

“Excited?” She asked when she noticed the look on his face.

”How could you tell?” He asked as he stalked toward her.

She laughed, reaching out as he approached her, assisting him in taking off the harness before he knelt to unlace his boots. He took off his pants and threw them across the room, looking at her for her approval.

Her lip quirked into a smile, “Those too,” she said, pointing at his underwear.

He didn’t hesitate to pull them off, stepping out of them as they fell to the floor. 

“Up,” she said, tapping the massage table with her hand. He sat down on it, turning himself to lie down on his front.

She first grabbed his arms, guiding them to rest horizontally against his back, she tied them together at the wrist, then wrapped a loop around each arm above the elbow. Another strand of rope was attached to each loop, pulled downward and tied down under the table. Then, she went to his legs. Started halfway down his thighs, she wrapped the rope around them several times then tied them together, repeating the knot at his knees and ankles. More rope was attached to each of the three knots, pulling his legs down onto the table, effectively restraining him from moving them at all.

Everything was quiet as he listened to the click of the lighter, breath rising in anticipation. He shivered when he felt her touch him, a single finger trailing down his spine, across the soft skin of his bottom, down his thigh.

“We’ll start slow, okay?” She said.

“Yeah.”

She removed her hand for a moment, touching the skin of his shoulder blade before it was followed by an almost searing heat as she dripped the wax on his skin. He hissed, his body jolting, legs trying to kick up, but held down tightly by the restraints. His cock hardened against the fabric of the massage table as he unintentionally ground down against it.

“How was that?” She asked as the wax began to quickly cool, hardening against his skin.

“Goood,” he groaned.

She chuckled, “Okay, one more.”

“Hmmm.”

Another touch on the opposite shoulder, and the wax, a little hotter now, dripped onto his skin. All pretense of trying to hold back left him as the yell escaped his throat, once again bucking against the rope, once again followed by a groan of pleasure from the friction.

“And that?”

“Hmmm. Hotter. More.”

“Monosyllabic already? So soon.”

Her next touch was a swipe of her finger down his side, followed by a stripe of wax she slowly poured down on him, the feeling of the burn combined with the already hardened wax something different.

She paused for a moment and he heard the lighter once more, “Some more colours, I think.”

She made him her canvas, his pale skin open to her, unable to move and undesiring to prevent her to do anything. Each touch she gave him was a warning and a promise, the wax coming quickly afterward, sometimes pooling on his skin, other times spread out in long lines that stretched up and down his body. He hissed and strained, writhed against the ropes and the table beneath him, his arousal almost as painful as the burn from the wax. 

She continued down his back, skipping over his butt to go to his legs, dotting his thighs and calves with more wax. The backs of his knees were particularly sensitive, and she had to stop for a minute or two, a calming hand on the back of his neck until he could get himself under control, her soothing voice reminding him how well he was doing.

“You’re so beautiful like this, Shadow,” she whispered in his ear, “We’re almost done, but you have to stay extra still. Stay still for me.”

The next touch came down right on his bottom, and the wax followed. And it burned, oh it burned, but he heard her. He clenched every muscled to stop himself.

The final spill of wax came as a complete surprise, and with it he was pushed over the edge, vision almost blacking out as he came under a vortex of pleasure-pain. Her hand came back to touch as neck as he breathed through it, mind slow and hazy as he brought himself back into reality.

“I’m going to start removing the wax, all right?”

“Hmm,” he replied, too blissed out to talk.

Her nails lightly scratched the wax away, peeling it off his skin and letting it fall to the floor below. He closed his eyes as she repeated the path she created with the wax, down his back, one leg, then up the other, leaving the wax on his ass until last. She then released the rope that was keeping him tied down, then worked the restraints on his legs and arms off, When she was finally done she helped him sit up.

“Go lie down,” she said, gently pushing him over to the bed, “I need to clean this up, I’ll join you soon.”

He collapsed onto the mattress, dragging his body over to grab a pillow, wrapping himself around it in lieu of her. He still couldn’t form a proper thought, but he didn’t feel like going to sleep, so he kept his eyes open, watching her as she worked.

He couldn’t tell how much time passed until she joined him, but he was happy when she did. She lay down next to him, her beautiful eyes staring into his. He reached out a hand, absentmindedly trailing his finger along the edge of her mask.

“I want to see you,” he croaked out, voice hoarse from screaming.

She took his hand within her, kissing the inside of his wrist, “You first.”

“Mmkay,” he agreed.

He struggled with the knot for a second, but the mask came free, and she touched his face and rubbed her thumb along his cheekbone.

“Hello,” she greeted.

“It’s Jasper,” he rasped, “M’name’s Jasper.”

She was far more confident than him in taking off her own mask.

“Eva,” she said as she drew the red velvet from her face, revealing a neat row of freckles that dusted her cheekbones and along her nose, “I’m Eva.”

**Author's Note:**

> me: struggles to write a single chapter for two months
> 
> also me: writes this in four days


End file.
